Page 95 of Wicked Fortune

That was when he saw her collection of poems. She’d left it sitting on the shelf in front of the videos. She’d probably put it down for a moment as she chose a flick, then forgot to pick it back up again.

It was one of her favorite books. They’d sit in the evening, and she’d flip through the pages, reading him snippets that moved her.

With a sigh, he closed his eyes. This walk down memory lane was eating at his gut, but he couldn’t keep himself from twisting the knife a little bit more by flipping through the pages himself. But as he opened the book, a piece of paper fell to the floor. He bent to pick it up, realizing it had been a bookmark, and he’d just lost her place.

Then he saw the words on the page, and they hit him like a punch to the gut⁠—

Read this to Matthew someday. It’s the way I feel about him.

He sank onto the couch, the paper tight in his hand.

He’d spent years trying to atone for his past, to build something good and true. And for a while, he’d believed he’d succeeded.

Now, without Aria, it all felt hollow.

The trick is not letting them bury you.

He didn’t know if he could win her back. Didn’t know if she would ever trust him again—or if she’d even want him once she knew the full truth. But he had to try. Because if he didn’t, then everything he’d built, everything he’d become, would mean nothing.

He stood up, and for the first time since she’d walked out, he felt the faintest flicker of hope.

THIRTY-ONE

The envelope is plain, tucked under the windshield wiper of my car, the creamy paper catching the glow of the streetlights. I notice it as I’m leaving Clive’s house—and his couch that I’m currently calling home. My plan is to drown my sorrow in a dark theater, fortified by a too-big bucket of popcorn and an unhealthy amount of Diet Coke, and I’m hurrying to catch the nine o’clock show.

At first, I think the envelope is an advertisement. But when I pull it free, I see my name written in a bold, elegant hand. No logo, no return address. Just the faint, familiar scent of Acqua di Parma Colonia clinging to it.

Matthew.

I glance around, scanning the street as if he might be lurking in the shadows. But it’s quiet—just a couple of kids skateboarding on the sidewalk and an elderly man walking his tiny dog.

With my heart thudding, I tear the envelope open and pull out a single piece of sky-blue cardstock. The words are simple, just a few lines stenciled neatly across the page:

Tonight. 9 p.m. Work. The rooftop.

That’s all it says. No explanation. No apology. Just an invitation—if it even qualifies as that. It feels more like a dare.

Fuck that.

He probably thinks this fixes everything. That I’ll walk into whatever he’s planned, and we’ll tie a neat little bow on this mess.

Anger burns through me, hot and sharp.

And yet …

I sigh, because despite the burst of anger, there’s something else burning inside me. Something light. Something more sunshine than fire.

I don’t let myself name it. Instead, I climb into the car and toss the card onto the passenger seat as I start the engine then head for the theater. I try not to think about it—that one stupid piece of paper. But at every light and stop sign, I glance over, as if it’s a living thing, demanding my attention.

The rooftop. Tonight.

I grimace and try to push that thought out of my brain.

When I’m finally parked, I shove the invitation into my purse, then open the glove compartment where I keep an extra deck of Tarot cards. Because sometimes you just need to do a quick check, regroup, and gather yourself.

I cut the deck four times, then spread the cards on the passenger seat, just where the invitation had been moments before. Then I close my eyes and draw one from the spread.

The Two of Cups.